Peggy Owen, Patriot: A Story for Girls

“I did not mean to, Peggy,” returned Harriet with her old manner of affection. “Do you not remember that I said this morning that I was sorry that I let you send it? And I am. I am. But John Drayton was to be with us, and he watched me so that I feared that he would see me. Truly, I am sorry, Peggy.”

She spoke with evident sincerity so that Peggy believed her.

“Harriet,” she said, “tell me why thou hast done this? Why should thee play the spy?”

Harriet shivered at the word. “I am cold,” she said. “Let us get into bed, Peggy. I am cold.”

Without a word of protest Peggy helped her to undress, but she herself climbed into the four-poster without disrobing. Harriet pulled the many colored counterpanes about her and snuggled down into the thick feather bed.

“Peggy,” she said presently, “I know ’tis thought most indelicate for a female to engage in such enterprise as spying, but would you not take any risk for your country if you thought it would benefit her?”

“Yes,” assented her cousin. “I would.”

“That and one other thing is the reason that I have become one,” said Harriet. “We English believe that you Americans are wrong about the war. We are loyal to our king, and fight to keep the colonies which rightfully belong to him. I came with my brother, Clifford, over here, and both of us were full of enthusiasm for His Majesty. We determined to do anything that would help him to put down the rebellion, and so believing offered our services to Sir Henry Clinton.

“There was but this one thing that I could do, and when we learned that you and your mother were to join Cousin David we knew that it was the opportunity we sought. Sir Henry welcomed the chance to have an informant who would be right in the midst of things without being suspected. And I have learned much, Peggy. I have done good work.”

“Harriet,” interrupted Peggy amazed at the recital, “does thee mean to tell me thee knew when mother and I were coming?”

“To the very day,” answered Harriet with a laugh. “Oh, we keep well informed in New York. You little know the people who are around you. And your general hath spies among us, too. ’Tis fortune of war, Peggy.”

“So General Washington said,” mused Peggy. “But I would thee were not one. ’Tis a life full of trickery and deceit. I like it not for a girl.”

“And the other reason,” continued Harriet, “is more personal. Peggy, my father hath lost all his fortune. We are very poor, my cousin.”

“But—but thy frocks?” cried Peggy. “Thee has been well dressed, Harriet, and frocks are frocks these days.”

“It seems so to you because you know not the mode, cousin. Were you in London you would soon see the difference betwixt my gowns and those of fashion. But I was to have the reward for Governor Livingston should the plan for his capture succeed, and that would have helped father a great deal.”

“Oh, Harriet, Harriet!” moaned Peggy bewildered by this maze of reasoning. “I would that thee had not done this, or that thou hadst returned to thy people long ago. Why did thee not go back the other day? ’Twas in the letter that thee should be near so as to be taken also.”

“I intended to,” answered Harriet. “That was why I wished to ride near to Liberty Hall, but when I found that I had lost the note, I came back for it, hoping that you had not seen it. You were determined to warn both the garrison and the governor, and that would render it impossible for me to get to our forces. I tried to slip away yesterday, but there was no chance. And now you will tell on me to-morrow, and I will be hanged.”

“Don’t, Harriet,” pleaded Peggy. “I am going right down to father, and see if he can tell us some way out of this. It may be that he can persuade General Washington to let thee go back to thy people.”

“Peggy,” cried Harriet laying a detaining hand upon the girl as she slipped from the bed. “You must not bring Cousin David into this. He is a soldier who stands high with the general. If he intercedes for me he will himself be under suspicion. You would not wish to get your father into trouble, would you? Beside, ’tis his duty, as a patriot, to give me up to punishment. Do you not see it? If I were not your cousin you would not hesitate in the matter.”

“True,” said Peggy pausing. Well she knew that her father was so loyal that the matter might appear to him in just that very way. “He loves thee well though, Harriet.”

“And for that reason he shall not be tempted,” cried Harriet. “No, Peggy; there is no help. I must pay the penalty. I knew the risk.”

She buried her face in the pillow, and, despite her brave words, sobs shook her form.

“Is there no way? No way?” cried Peggy frantically. “I cannot bear to think of thee being hang——” She paused, unable to finish the dreadful word.

“There is one way,” said Harriet suddenly sitting up. “If you would help me, Peggy, to get to Amboy I could get to New York from there.”

“Could thee, Harriet? How?”

“There are always sloops that ply betwixt the two places,” said Harriet. “If I could but reach there I know that I could get one of them to take me to the city.”

“But how could thee reach Amboy?” asked Peggy.

“Peggy, go with me now,” pleaded Harriet, clasping her arms about her cousin. “Let us slip down, and get our horses. Then we can get to Amboy, and you could be back to-morrow morning. Your father, ay! and your mother, too, would be glad to know that I had got away before they came to arrest me.”

“But why should I go?” inquired Peggy. “Can thee not go alone? Thee knows the way.”

“They would not let me pass the lines,” said Harriet. “They would know by my voice that I was English, and would detain me. Whatever we try to do in the matter must be done to-night, because to-morrow will be too late. Will you come with me, Peggy? I shall never ask aught else of you.”

“I will come,” said Peggy, after a moment’s thought. “I do believe that father and mother will approve. And, Harriet, will thee give me back my promise, if I do come?”

“Yes, Peggy. And further, my cousin, if you will but help me to get to New York I will never act the spy again. I promise you that of my own accord. ’Tis too much risk for a girl, and I have had my lesson.”

“Oh, Harriet,” cried Peggy. “If thee will only do that then I can tell General Washington all the matter with light heart. I like not to think of thee as a spy.”

The tattoo had long since sounded. The house was still. The girls dressed themselves warmly, and stole silently out of the dwelling down to the stables where their horses were kept. Deftly they bridled and saddled the animals, and then led them quietly to the lane which would take them to the road.

In the distance the flames of the dying camp-fires flickered palely, illumining the shadowy forms of the few soldiers grouped about them, and accentuating the gloom of the encircling wood. A brooding stillness hung over the encampment, broken only by the sough of the wind as it wandered about the huts, or stirred the branches of the pines on the hills. The army slept. Slept as only those sleep who have earned repose. They were soldiers whose hardships and sufferings have scarcely a parallel in the annals of history, yet they could sleep even though they had but hard boards for a couch, and but a blanket or a little straw for covering.

Peggy started suddenly as the deep bay of a hound came to them from the village of Bound Brook.

“Harriet,” she whispered, “I am afraid. Let us wait until to-morrow.”

“To-morrow will be too late,” answered Harriet, and Peggy wondered to hear how hard her voice sounded. “Do you want me hung, Peggy? Beside, you promised that you would come. ’Tis the last time that I’ll ever ask favor of you.”

“Yes, I know,” answered Peggy, in a low tone. “I will go, Harriet; but I wish now that I had not said that I would.”

“Come,” was Harriet’s brief answer. And Peggy followed her into the darkness.

CHAPTER XXII—A HIGH-HANDED PROCEEDING

“Hasn’t thee the countersign?” asked Peggy, dismayed.

“No; don’t talk, Peggy.”

And Peggy, wondering much how with two horses they could pass the pickets unchallenged, relapsed into silence. But the lack of the password did not seem to daunt Harriet. She pushed ahead as rapidly as was consistent with rough ground, thickly growing trees and underbrush, and the gloom of the forest. At length as they entered a shallow ravine Harriet drew rein, and, as Peggy came up beside her, she spoke:

“Are you afraid, Peggy?”

“No,” replied Peggy, “but the stillness is monstrously wearing. And ’tis so dark, Harriet.”

“Which is to our benefit,” returned Harriet. “As for the quiet, once we are clear of the lines we can chat, and so will not mind it. But come!”

Again she took the lead, and Peggy, following after, could not but marvel at the unerring precision with which her cousin chose her way. Not once did she falter or hesitate, though to Peggy the darkness and gloom of the forest seemed impenetrable.

The melancholy of the forest encompassed them, infolding them like a mantle. It so wrought upon their senses that they reached out and touched each other frequently, seeking to find solace from its brooding sadness. It seemed as though hours elapsed before Harriet spoke in the merest whisper:

“I think we are without the lines, Peggy. ’Tis about time, and now we can seek the turnpike.”

She had scarcely finished speaking when out of the darkness came the peremptory command:

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“Friends,” answered Harriet, as the two obediently brought their horses to a standstill.

In the darkness the shadowy form of the sentinel was but dimly visible, but a feeble ray of the pale moonlight caught the gleam of his musket, and Peggy saw with a thrill of fear that it was pointed directly toward Harriet.

“Advance, and give the countersign,” came the order.

How it came about Peggy could not tell, but as he gave the command, Fleetwood reared suddenly upon his hind feet, and, pawing the air with his forelegs and snorting viciously, advanced toward the guard threateningly. An ominous click of the firelock sounded. Wild with terror at the sight, and fearful of what might happen, Peggy cried shrilly:

“Look sharp!”

“Why didn’t you say so before?” growled the sentry lowering his gun. “What’s the matter with that horse?”

“I think he must have stepped among some thorn bushes,” replied Harriet sweetly. “I will soon quiet him, friend. The underbrush is thick hereabouts.”

“Too thick to be straying around in at night,” he answered with some roughness. “That horse is enough to scare the British. What are you doing in the woods? You are bound to lose your way.”

“We have done that already,” she told him with apparent frankness. She had succeeded by this time in quieting Fleetwood, who now resumed his normal position. By the merest chance they had stumbled upon the password, and she purposed making the most of it. “You see we were at a party in the camp, and coming back my cousin and I thought to make a short cut through the woods so as to get home quickly. We ought to have been there long ago, but ’twas a pretty little frisk, and we just couldn’t make up our minds to leave. You know how it is.”

“Yes,” he rejoined laughing good naturedly. “I know how ’tis. I’ve gals of my own. Well, you just get over to that road as fast as you can. ’Tis a half mile straight to your right. And say! if another sentinel asks for the countersign speak right up. You’re liable to get a ball if you don’t.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We will remember. Come, my cousin.”

“You blessed Peggy!” she exclaimed as they passed beyond the hearing of the guard. “How did you chance upon that watchword?”

“I don’t know,” answered Peggy, who had not yet recovered her equanimity. “I meant to say, ‘Look out!’ I don’t know how I came to say sharp. But what was the matter with Fleetwood? Was he among thorns?”

“Dear me, no! ’Tis a trick that I taught him. You do not know all his accomplishments. ’Twas well for that sentinel that he let us through. Wasn’t it, old fellow?” And her laugh as she patted the animal was not a pleasant one to hear.

Peggy shuddered. She would not like Star to be taught such tricks, she thought, giving the little mare a loving caress. She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming with Harriet. The girl appeared to know her way so well, to be so able to care for herself that there seemed no need for Peggy to be along. But let her see her safely to a place where she could reach her own people, and then Peggy resolved, with a quick tightening of the lips, nothing should ever induce her to put herself into such a plight again.

By this time the moon had gone down, and while the sky was not clouded there was a dim haze that rendered the light of the stars ineffectual in dispelling the darkness. On they rode. The time seemed interminable to Peggy; the blackness of the night unbearable. The sudden snapping of a dried twig under Star’s feet caused her to start violently.

“Harriet,” she cried, “naught is to be gained by keeping to the woods. The lines are passed. Let us get to the highway. We must make better progress if I am to get back before the reveille.”

“That you will never do, Peggy,” replied Harriet pointing to the sky. “’Tis almost time for it now.”

Peggy looked up in dismay. The gray twilight that precedes the dawn was stealing over the darkness. The soldier’s day began when the sentry could see a thousand yards about him. Another hour would bring about just that condition. It was clearly impossible for her to return before the sounding of the reveille.

“Does thee know where we are?” she asked. “And where is the road?”

“There is just a narrow strip of the woods betwixt us and the turnpike, Peggy,” Harriet assured her. “It hath been so since we left the guard. We will get to it at once if it please you. As for where we are, we should be getting to Perth Amboy soon.”

“But why hath it taken so long?” queried Peggy.

“Because the brigades of Baron Steuben and General Wayne lay south of the Raritan, and we had to go around them. I did not tell you, Peggy, that ’twould take so long because I feared that you would not come. It doth not matter, doth it, what way I took to safety?”

“No,” answered Peggy, touched by this allusion to her cousin’s peril. “It would have been fearful for thee to have come through the darkness alone, but oh, Harriet! I do wish thee had told me. Then I would have left a letter for mother, anyway. She will be so uneasy.”

“Never mind!” consoled Harriet. “And then you may never see me again. Shall you care, Peggy?”

“Yes,” answered Peggy soberly. “I will, but——” She paused and drew rein abruptly. “There are forms flitting about in the wood,” she whispered. “Does thee think they mean us harm?”

Harriet made no reply, but gazed intently into the forest. In the indistinct light the figures of mounted men could be seen moving like shadows among the trees. That they were gradually approaching the maidens was evident. The girl watched them for a few seconds, and then leaning forward gave a low, birdlike call. It was answered in kind on the instant, and a half dozen horsemen dashed from the wood into the narrow highway.

“Now am I safe,” cried Harriet joyfully, reaching out her hand to the foremost of the men who gathered about them. “Captain Greyling, your arrival is timely.”

“We have waited many nights for you, Mistress Owen,” said that officer. “We began to think that you might in very truth have become one of the rebels. You are most welcome.”

“Thank you,” she cried gaily. “You are not more pleased to see me than I am to be here. In truth, had I not succeeded in coming, I should not have had another opportunity. ’Twas becoming very uncomfortable in camp. I have barely escaped I know not what fate. But more of that anon. Peggy, let me present Captain Greyling of De Lancy’s Loyal Legion. My cousin, Mistress Peggy Owen, Captain Greyling.”

De Lancy’s Loyal Legion! Peggy’s cheek blanched at the name. This was a body of Tory cavalry, half freebooters and half in the regular service. Between New York and Philadelphia and the country surrounding both places the name stood for all that was terrible and malignant in human nature. So stricken with terror was she that she could not return the officer’s salutation.

“Where lies the boat?” asked Harriet.

“Close to the bank of the river. The trees hide it. ’Tis but a shallop which will take us to the sloop which is in the bay outside Amboy. The men will bring the horses by ferry.”

“Very well,” answered Harriet, preparing to dismount. “We are at the end of our long ride, Peggy. Are you not glad?”

“I am for thee,” said Peggy, speaking quietly but filled with a vague alarm. “As for me, I will bid thee farewell, and return to the camp.”

She wheeled as she spoke, but instantly the mare’s bridle was seized, and she was brought to a standstill.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried Peggy, her eyes flashing. “Thee is safe, Harriet. Call off thy friends. Thee knows that I must return.”

“Dost think that I will part with you so soon, my cousin?” laughed Harriet mockingly. “Nay, nay; I have promised to bring you to New York. Best go peaceably, Peggy; for go you must.”

“Never!” exclaimed Peggy, striking Star a sharp blow. The little mare reared, plunged, pranced and wheeled in the effort to rid herself of the hold on her bridle, but vainly. Peggy uttered a piercing shriek as she was torn from the saddle, and half dragged, half carried through the trees down the bank to the boat which was drawn up close to the shore. Two of the men followed after the captain and Harriet. The latter seated herself by Peggy’s side, and placed her arm about her.

“’Twould have been better to come quietly,” she said. “I meant you should go back with me all the while. I could not bear to lose you, Peggy. I thought——”

But Peggy, her spirit up in arms, turned such a look of scorn upon her cousin that Harriet paused in her speech abruptly.

“Speak not to me of affection, Harriet Owen,” she cried. “Thou art incapable of feeling it. Is there no truth to be found in any of thy family? Are ye all treacherous and dishonorable? Would that thou wert no kin of mine! Would that I had never seen thee, nor any of thy——”

Unable to continue, she burst into a passion of tears.

CHAPTER XXIII—IN THE LINES OF THE ENEMY

Peggy vouchsafed her never a word, but taking a position by the taffrail stood looking over the dazzling water toward the now receding shores of New Jersey. Into the lower bay sailed the sloop, heading at once for the narrows. Few sails were to be seen on the wide expanse of water save to the left where, under the heights of Staten Island, a part of the British fleet lay at anchor. Brilliant shafts of sunlight wavered and played over the face of the water. Astern, as far as the eye could see, lay the ocean, blank of all sail, the waves glinting back the strong light of the east. Sky, water and shore all united in one sublime harmony of pearls and grays of which the grandeur was none the less for lack of vivid coloring.

The discordant note lay in Peggy’s heart. She was full of the humiliation and bitterness of trust betrayed. Humiliation because she had been tricked so easily, and bitterness as the full realization of her cousin’s treachery came to her. And General Washington! What would he think when she did not come to him as she had promised? He would deem her a spy. And she was Peggy Owen! Peggy Owen—who had prided herself on her love for her country. Oh, it was bitter! Bitter! And so she stood with unseeing eyes for the grand panorama of bay and shore that was unfolding before her.

The wind was favorable, yet it was past one of the clock before the vessel made the narrows, glided past Nutten’s^[2] Island, and finally came to anchor alongside the Whitehall Slip. Harriet, who had remained below the entire journey, now came on deck looking much refreshed.

“You foolish Peggy!” she cried. “Of what use is it to grieve o’er what cannot be helped? Think you that I did not wish to be with my people when I was in the rebel camp?”

“Thee came there of thine own free will,” answered Peggy coldly, “while I am here through no wish of mine. Why did thee bring me?”

“Out of affection, of course,” laughed Harriet. “Ah! there is father on the shore waiting for us.”

“I thought thee said that he was in the South,” Peggy reminded her.

“One says so many things in war time,” answered Harriet with a shrug of her shoulders. “Perchance I intended to say Clifford.”

“And so you are come to return some of our visits, my little cousin,” cried Colonel Owen, coming forward from the side of a coach as they came ashore. “’Twas well thought. ’Twill be delightsome to return some of your hospitality.”

“Oh, Cousin William,” cried she, the tears beginning to flow, “do send me back to my mother! Oh, I do want my mother!”

“Tut, tut!” he rejoined. “Homesick already? You should have considered that when you planned to come with Harriet.”

“When I what?” exclaimed Peggy, looking up through her tears.

“Planned to come with Harriet,” he repeated impatiently. “She wrote some time since that she would bring you. Come! The dinner waits. We have prepared for you every day for a week past. I am glad the waiting is over. Come, my cousin.”

And Peggy, seeing that further pleading was of no avail, entered the coach, silently determined to make no other appeal. A short drive brought them to a spacious dwelling standing in the midst of large grounds in the Richmond Hill district, which was situated on the western side of Manhattan Island, a little removed from the city proper. The building stood on an eminence commanding a view of the Hudson River and the bay, for at that time there were no houses or other buildings to obstruct the vision, and was surrounded by noble trees. A carefully cultivated lawn even then, so mild had been the winter, showing a little green stretched on one side as far as the road which ran past the house. On the other was the plot for the gardens, while in the rear of the mansion the orchard extended to the river bank. On every hand was evidence of wealth and luxury, and Peggy’s heart grew heavy indeed as she came to know that Colonel Owen’s poverty had been but another of Harriet’s fabrications.

She sat silent and miserable at the table while Harriet, who was in high spirits, related the incidents of the past few days: the finding of the note in the roadway, the warning of the governor and the brigade, and how she had been petted and praised for her heroism. Her father and Captain Greyling, who had accompanied them home, laughed uproariously at this.

“Upon my life, my cousin,” cried William Owen, “I wonder not that you are in the dumps. Fie, fie, Harriet! ’twas most unmannerly to steal such a march upon your cousin. For shame! And did our little cousin weep out her pretty eyes in pique that you were so fêted?”

But Peggy was in no mood for banter. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and an accent in her voice that showed that she was not to be trifled with as she said clearly:

“No, Cousin William, I did not weep. It mattered not who gave the warning so long as the governor and the brigade received it. It was most fitting that Harriet should have the praise, as that was all she got out of it. ’Twas planned, as thee must know, for her to receive a more substantial reward.”

“You have not lost your gift of a sharp tongue, I perceive,” he answered a flush mantling his brow. “Have a care to your words, my little cousin. You are no longer in your home, but in mine.”

“I am aware of that, sir. But that I am here is by no will of mine. If I am used despitefully ’tis no more than is to be expected from those who know naught but guile and artifice.”

“Have done,” he cried, rising from the table. “Am I to be railed at in mine own house? Harriet, show this girl to her chamber.”

Nothing loth Peggy followed her cousin to a little room on the second floor, whose one window looked out upon the noble Hudson and the distant Jersey shore.

“Aren’t you going to be friends, Peggy?” questioned Harriet pausing at the door. “I could not do other than I did. Father wished me to bring you here.”

“But why?” asked Peggy turning upon her. “Why should he want me here? Is it to flout me?”

“I know not, Peggy. But be friends, won’t you? There is much more sport to be had here in the city than in yon camp. You shall share with me in the fun.”

“I care not for it,” rejoined Peggy coldly. “And I will never forgive thee, Harriet Owen. Never! I see not how thee could act so.”

And so saying she turned from her cousin with unmistakable aversion, and walking to the window gazed with aching heart at the Jersey shore line. Harriet stood for a moment, and then went out, closing the door behind her. Presently Peggy flung herself on the bed and gave way to her bitter woe in a flood of tears. For what lay at the bottom of her bitterness? It was the sharp knowledge that, with just a little forethought, a little heeding of her mother’s and John Drayton’s warnings, all this might have been avoided.

Human nature is very weak, and any grief that comes from our own carelessness, or lack of thought is harder to bear than that woe which is caused by untoward circumstances. But at last tired nature asserted itself, and Peggy fell asleep.

Long hours after she awoke. It was quite dark in the room, and she was stiff with cold. For a moment she fancied herself in her own little room under the eaves at the camp, but soon a realization of where she was came to her. She rose and groped her way to the window. The moon shone upon the river and the Jersey shore. She looked toward the latter yearningly.

“Mother,” she whispered with quivering lips, “mother, what would thee have me to do?” And suddenly it seemed to her that she could hear the sweet voice of her mother saying:

“My daughter, thou must bear with meekness the afflictions that are sent upon thee. Hast thou not been taught to do good to them that despitefully use thee?” Peggy uttered a cry of protest.

“I cannot forgive them! They have behaved treacherously toward me. And my country! ’Tis not to be endured that I should be placed in such position toward it. ’Tis not to be endured, I say.”

“Thou hast been close to sacred things all thy life, my child,” sounded that gentle voice. “Of what avail hath it been if thy actions are no different from those of the world? And thou art not without blame in the matter.”

Long Peggy stood at the window. It seemed to her that her mother was very near to her. And so communing with that loved mother the bitterness died out of her heart, and she wept. No longer virulently, but softly, the gentle tears of resignation.

“I will try to bear it,” she murmured, as she crept between the covers of the bed. “I will be brave, and as good as thee would have me be, mother. And I will be so truthful in act and word that it may shame them out of deceit. And maybe, maybe if I am good a way will be opened for me to get back to thee.”

And so she fell into a restful sleep.

CHAPTER XXIV—THE REASON WHY

“Which will be at my pleasure,” he rejoined. But to this she made no reply. “I am assisting Colonel Montressor, who is in charge of the defenses of the city,” he remarked presently. “When your horses are well rested you girls shall ride about with me.”

“We have been riding almost every day the past winter with father,” said Peggy, trying not to choke over the word. “The weather hath been so pleasant that it hath been most agreeable for riding. There are pretty rides over the hills and dales near the camp.”

“You will find them no less beautiful here,” he assured her. “And now I must go. Sir Henry will wish to see you during the day, Harriet.”

“Very well,” she answered. “And I must see about some new frocks, father. I misdoubt that my boxes will be sent after me from the rebel camp. Mr. Washington will not be so thoughtful anent the matter as Sir Henry was. I shall need a number of new ones.”

“More gowns, Harriet!” he exclaimed. “You will ruin me by your extravagance. Haven’t you anything that will do?”

“I dare say that I can make shift for a time,” she replied. “But la! what’s the use of being in His Majesty’s service unless one profits by it?”

“That seems to be the opinion of every one connected with it,” he observed grimly.

“Harriet,” spoke Peggy timidly, uncertain as to the manner her proposition would be received, “I can sew very well indeed. Let me bring some of thy old frocks up to the mode. ’Twill save thy father money, and in truth things are monstrously high. That was one reason mother and I joined father in camp. Thee admired that cream brocade of mine that was made from mother’s wedding gown. Let me see if I cannot do as well with some of thy finery.”

“That’s all very well for you rebels,” spoke Harriet with some scorn, “but when one is with English nobility ’tis another matter. Father, what do you think? They sometimes wore homespun at camp even to the dinners. They were always busy at something, and now here Peggy wants to get right into sewing. Americans have queer ideas of amusement.”

“If there is one thing that I admire about the Americans ’tis the manner in which they bring up their daughters,” remarked her father with emphasis. “I have yet to see a girl of these colonies who was not proficient in housewifely arts. If Peggy can help you fix over some of your things let her. And do try to pattern after her thrifty ways, Harriet.”

“Peggy is quite welcome to fix them for herself,” said Harriet with a curl of her lips, and a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I shall get some new ones.”

Colonel Owen sighed, but left the room without further protest. The conversation set Peggy to thinking, and observing. There was indeed luxury on every hand, but there was also great waste. Wherever the British army settled they gave themselves up to such amusements as the city afforded or they could create. Fear, fraud and incompetence reigned in every branch of the service, and between vandalism and the necessities of war New York suffered all the woes of a besieged city. In the endeavor to keep pace with his spendthrift superiors her cousin’s household expenditures had run into useless excess.

Harriet plunged at once into the gaiety of the city with all the abandon of her nature, and Peggy, much against her inclination, was of necessity compelled to enter into it also. There were rides every clear day which revealed the strong defenses of the city. New York was in truth but a fortified camp. A first line of defense extended from the heights of Corlear’s Hook across the island to the Hudson. There was still another line further up near the narrow neck of land below Fort Washington, while a strong garrison guarded the outlying post of Kingsbridge. Peggy soon realized that unless she was given wings she could never hope to pass the sentinels. Every afternoon in the Grand Battery along the bay a German band of hautboys played for the amusement of the officers and townspeople, and here Peggy met many of the young “macaroni” officers or feminine “toasts” of the city. She grew weary of the incessant round of entertainments. There had been much social intercourse at the camp, but it had been tempered by sobriety, and life was not wholly given up to it. Peggy resolved that she would have to occupy herself in other ways.

“Cousin William,” she said one morning, seeking Colonel Owen in his study, where he sat looking over some papers with a frowning brow, “may I talk with thee a little?”

“Is it anent the matter of home?” he queried. “I can do nothing, Peggy. You will have to stay here. We can’t have a rebel come into our lines and then leave, you know.”

“I know,” she answered sorrowfully. “I want to go home, but ’twas not of that I came to speak.”

“Of what then?” he asked.

“Thee lives so well,” she said with a blush at her temerity, “and yet, sir, there is so much waste. Thee could live just as well yet there need be no excess. I wish, Cousin William, that thee would let me look after the household while I am here. I care naught for the pleasurings, and ’twould occupy me until such time as thee would let me go home,” she added a trifle wistfully. “I could not do so well as mother, but yet I do feel that I could manage more thriftily than thy servants.”

“Peggy,” he cried springing to his feet, “I hoped for this. You owe me a great deal, and ’tis as well to begin to pay some of your debt. That is why I brought you here.”

“I owe thee anything?” she asked amazed. “How can that be?”

“Think you that I have forgotten the time spent in your house, my little cousin? Think you that I, an officer in His Majesty’s service, do not resent that I was given in exchange for a dragoon?”

“If thee thinks that I owe thee anything, my cousin, I will be glad to pay it,” said Peggy regarding him with wondering, innocent eyes. “I am sorry thee holds aught against me.”

Colonel Owen had the grace to blush.

“Harriet hath no housewifely tastes,” he said hastily, “and my son shares her extravagant habits. Between them and the necessity of maintaining a position befitting an officer, I am like to come to grief. You are a good little thing, after all, Peggy. And now let me take you about and put you in charge.”

And thus it came that Peggy found herself installed at the head of her cousin’s household. The position was no sinecure. She made mistakes, for never before had she been thrown so entirely upon her own resources, but she had been well trained, and the result was soon apparent in the lessened expenditures. The experience was of great benefit to her, and she grew womanly and self-reliant under the charge. Her cousin’s manner too underwent a most pleasing transformation. He was kindly, and but seldom made cutting and sarcastic speeches at her expense. Upon the other hand, she was subjected to a petty tyranny from Harriet quite at variance with her former deportment.

And the spring passed into summer; summer waxed and waned, and in all that time there had come no word from her father or mother, nor had there been opportunity for her to send them any. That the war was going disastrously against the patriots in the South she could not but gather from the rejoicings of the British. Of the capture of Stony Point on the Hudson by the Americans she was kept in ignorance. The influx of a large body of troops and militia into the city, the surrounding of the island by forty men-of-war, told that Sir Henry Clinton feared attack. And so the summer passed.

In December the troops from Rhode Island were hastily withdrawn, the city strongly fortified, and everything indicated a movement of some kind. Peggy tried to ascertain what it was, but for some time could not do so. The snow which had begun falling in November now increased in the frequency of the storms, scarcely a day passed without its fall. The cold became severe, and ice formed in rivers and bay until at length both the Hudson and Sound rivers were frozen solidly. The bay also became as terra firma, and horses, wagons and artillery passed over the ice to Staten Island.

“Is our stock of fire-wood getting low, Peggy?” inquired Colonel Owen one morning, laying down the “Rivington Gazette” which he was reading. “The paper speaks of the growing scarcity of wood, and says that if the severe weather continues we will be obliged to cut down the trees in the city for fuel.”

“I ordered some yesterday from the woodyards,” Peggy told him. She was standing by one of the long windows overlooking the frozen Hudson. How near New Jersey seemed. Men and teams were at that moment passing over the ice on their way to and from the city. How easy it looked to go across. She turned to him suddenly. “How much longer am I to stay, Cousin William?” she asked.

“Till the war closes,” he said laughing. As a shadow passed over her face he added: “And that won’t be much longer, my little cousin. There is a movement on foot that is going to bring it to a close before you realize what hath happened. We have at last got your Mr. Washington in a cul de sac from which he cannot escape.”

“Where is General Washington, my cousin?” asked she quickly.

“On the heights of Morristown, in New Jersey. Nay,” he laughed as a sudden eager light flashed into her eyes, “you cannot reach him, Peggy. If you could get through the lines, which you cannot, for the guards have been increased to prevent surprise, you could not go through the forest. The snow lies four feet on the level. You could not get through the woods. But cheer up! I promise you a glimpse of your hero soon. The war is on its last legs.”

Peggy gazed after him with troubled eyes as he left the room. What was the new movement on foot? Pondering the matter much she went about the duties of the day. About the middle of the forenoon an ox cart with the wood she had ordered drove into the stable yard. She uttered an exclamation of vexation as she saw the ragged heap which the driver was piling. Throwing a wrap about her she hurried into the yard where the team was.

“Friend,” she called severely, for Peggy looked well to the ways of the household, “that is not the way to unload the wood. It must be corded so that it can be measured.”

“Yes, mistress,” answered the driver, touching his hat.

Peggy started. He had given the military salute instead of the usual curtsey of the countryman. She looked at him intently. There was something strangely familiar about him, she thought, but he was so bundled up that she could only see his eyes. Whistling cheerfully the driver began to cord the wood as she directed.

“Thou art not o’erstrong for the work,” she commented as he struggled valiantly with a great stick. “I will send one of the stablemen to help thee.”

“Wait, Peggy,” he said in a low tone.

“John!” almost screamed the girl. “John Drayton!”

CHAPTER XXV—THE ALERT THAT FAILED

“Oh, I’m used to it,” he responded airily. “Just send along that stableman though, Peggy. These sticks are heavy. And say! Is’t permitted to feed drivers of carts? There are not many rations just now in Morristown, and I’d really like to eat once more.”

“Thee shall have all thee wants,” she assured him. “But oh, John! if they should find out who thee is! Thou art mad to venture into the city.”

“If they will wait until I’ve eaten they may do their worst,” he replied with a touch of his old jauntiness. “No; I don’t mean that, for I’ve come to take you back with me. That is, if you want to go?”

“I do, I do,” she told him almost in tears.

“Then go right in,” he commanded. “Won’t your cousins suspect something if they see you talking like this to a countryman?”

“They will think I am scolding thee,” she said with a tremulous little laugh. “And truly thee needs it, John. I never saw a cord of wood piled so crookedly before in my life.”

“They’ll be glad to get wood in any shape if this weather keeps on, I’m thinking,” he made answer. “Now do go right in, Peggy. And don’t forget that stableman.”

Peggy hastened within doors, sent the man to help with the wood, and then tried to regain her usual composure by preparing a meal for Drayton.

“The poor lad,” was her mental comment a little later as she watched the young fellow stow away the food that was placed before him. “He eats as though he had had nothing all winter.”

This was nearer truth than she dreamed. Had she but known the condition of the army at Morristown she would not have wondered at the boy’s voraciousness. She hovered about him, attending to his needs carefully, longing but not daring to ask the many questions that crowded to her lips. It would not do to risk conversation of any sort in the house. There were too many coming and going. As it was the servants gazed at her in surprise, curious as to her interest in a teamster. The meal finished, Drayton rose with a word of thanks, and crossed to the fire which blazed upon the kitchen hearth.

Peggy felt a sudden apprehension as she heard Harriet’s step in the hall. What if she should enter the kitchen? Would Drayton be safe from the keen scrutiny of her sharp eyes? The lad himself seemed to feel no uneasiness, but hung over the roaring fire of hickory logs as though reluctant to leave its warmth. Making a pretense of replenishing the fire Peggy whispered:

“Go, go! Harriet is coming.” Drayton roused himself with a start, drew his wrappings close about him, and, giving her a significant look, passed through the outside door just as Harriet entered the room from the passage.

“Who was that, Peggy?” she asked sharply.

“The man with the wood,” answered Peggy busied about the fire. “I gave him something to eat.”

“Mercy, Peggy! Is it necessary to feed such riffraff? They are all a pack of rebels. No wonder father complains of expense.”

Peggy’s cheeks flamed with indignation. “Would thee send any one away in such weather without first giving him food?” she demanded. “’Twould be inhuman!”

“And I suppose thee wouldn’t treat a Britisher so,” mimicked Harriet who was plainly in a bad humor. “Did father tell you that Sir Henry Clinton was to dine here to-day?”

“Yes,” returned Peggy gravely. “’Tis fortunate that ’tis market day, for there are some things needed. I shall have to use the sleigh. Thee won’t mind? I cannot get into the city otherwise.”

“Oh, take it, by all means,” replied Harriet. “I wouldn’t go out in this weather for a dozen Sir Henrys. La, la! ’tis cold!” She shivered in spite of the great fire. “What doth father wish to see Sir Henry alone for?” she asked abruptly. “He told me but now that he did not desire my company after dinner. And I had learned a new piece on the harpsichord, too,” she ended pettishly.

“I know not, Harriet,” said Peggy instantly troubled. She did not doubt but that it had something to do with the movement against General Washington, but she did not utter her suspicion. “Mayhap ’tis business of moment.”

“Oh, yes; I dare say,” retorted Harriet. She yawned, and left the room.

Peggy gave the necessary orders for the dinner and then quietly arrayed herself for the marketing. She was allowed a certain freedom of movement, and went into the city about business of the household without question. With scrupulous conscientiousness she attended to the marketing first, and then bidding the coachman wait for her, went rapidly to Little Queen Street on foot.

She had met with but few Quakers. They were regarded as neutrals, but Colonel Owen disliked them as a sect and had forbidden her to hold communication with them. Still Peggy knew where many of them lived, and among these was Rachel Kenton. It was a quaint Dutch house, easily found. New York was not so large as Philadelphia at this time, and Peggy hastened up the stoop with eagerness, her heart beating with delight at the prospect of at last hearing from her dear ones.

A pleasant-faced, sweet-mannered woman responded to her knock, and ushered her at once into a room just off the sitting-room, where Drayton sat awaiting her. She ran to him with outstretched hands.

“Now I can tell thee how glad I am to see thee,” she cried. “And oh, John, do tell me of my mother! And father! How are they?”

“Both are well,” he answered, “but they have grieved over your going away. Why did you leave camp, Peggy?”

“’Twas because of Harriet,” she told him. “She was a spy, John. They would have hanged her had they found out that it was she who wrote that note. And oh, what did General Washington say when he found me gone? It hath been so long since then, and never a word could I hear.”

“Well, he was pretty much cut up over it, and so were we all. Your mother thought that Harriet must be at the bottom of the matter, and so did I. Her boxes were searched, and some notes found that proved she was a spy. Then, too, we made that fellow confess to everything he knew. You remember him, Peggy? He accused you.”

“Yes,” answered Peggy. “I remember, John. I can never forget how I felt when he accused me of being the girl who gave him that letter. And it wasn’t the same one at all.”

“We got at the whole affair right well,” continued Drayton. “What we could not understand was the fact that you came on to New York with your cousin. Why did you?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “They brought me by force. I begged to go back, but they wouldn’t let me.” Hereupon she told him the whole story, ending with: “And Cousin William says that he had a score to settle with me—and that was the reason he wanted me to come. John, thee will tell the general that I could not help coming?”

“Yes,” he said, with difficulty restraining his indignation. “Peggy, Harriet would not have been hanged. They might have sent her out of the lines, or even made her a prisoner, but they would not have hanged her. Not but what she would have deserved it just as much as that poor fellow who was hanged agreeable to his sentence, but being a girl would have saved her.”

“But thee said that it went hard with spies, whether they were men, women, or girls even,” objected she. “And General Washington used almost the same words.”

“And so it does,” he replied, “but there are other punishments than hanging. Never mind that now, Peggy. Let us plan to get away. I must take the ox cart back into Jersey this afternoon. I have a pass for one only, but I am to take back salt, coffee and flour. There is an empty sack, and if you will hide within it we may be able to pass you as merchandise. Will you try it, Peggy?”

“I will do anything,” she declared excitedly. “It hath been so long! So long, John, since I have seen mother that I am willing to attempt anything.”

“Wrap up well,” he advised her. “’Tis terrible weather, and be somewhere among the trees as I come past the house. It will be about half-past four, as it grows dark then, and the bags will not be so sharply scrutinized. Once the cart is home we will have to run our chances of getting to Morristown.”

“John,” she cried as a sudden thought came to her, “there is some movement on foot against the general. I did not think to tell thee before. I know not what it is.”

Drayton looked up quickly.

“I wish we knew what it was,” he said. “There have been signs of an action on the part of the British, but we have been unable to obtain an inkling of what it could be. I would like right well to know.”

“And so would I,” said she.

“Go now,” he said rising. “You must not let them suspect there is anything afoot, Peggy. I will move about in the city and see what I can find out. Be sure to wrap up.”

“I will,” she told him. “I hate to let thee go.”

“’Tis only for a little while,” he answered. “’Twill be a hard journey for you, Peggy, but your mother is at the end of it.”

“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Mother is at the end.”

Unable to speak further she turned and left him. The day was extremely cold, and as she entered the house after the drive, and felt the warmth of the fire, she became aware of a delicious drowsiness that was stealing over her.

“This will never do,” she exclaimed, trying to shake off the feeling. “I must keep awake.” But try as she would her eyelids grew heavier until finally she sought Harriet in the drawingroom.

“Harriet,” she said, “will thee serve the dinner? I am so sleepy from the drive that I must lie down a few moments. I know right well that I should not give up, but——”

“Nonsense,” cried Harriet crossly; “go lie down an you will, Peggy. One would think to hear you talk that dinner could not be served without you. ’Tis provoking the airs you give yourself! I dare say you will not be missed.”

“Thank thee, Harriet,” answered Peggy. “Thee will not find it irksome. ’Tis about ready.” The tired girl slipped down to the now empty drawing-room.

“I fear me I must hide if I want a minute to myself,” she thought, gazing about the large room in search of a safe retreat. “And I must have my wits about me to help John. If I can but close my eyes for a moment, just a moment, I will be in proper trim.” Presently she spied the large easy chair much affected by Colonel Owen, and she ran toward it with an exclamation of delight.

“’Tis the very thing!” she cried, drawing it to the most remote corner of the room, and turning it about so that it faced the wall. “Now let them find me if they can.” And so saying she ensconced herself in its capacious recesses, and almost instantly fell asleep.

“And you think the plan will not miscarry?” came the voice of the commander-in-chief of the British forces in America.

Peggy awoke with a start. Was she dreaming or did she in truth hear her cousin say:

“There is not the least chance of it, Sir Henry. The rebel general hath his quarters full two miles from his main army, and owing to the cold and the snow no danger is apprehended; so his guards are trifling. We can easily slip upon him and be away with him before mishap can befall us. Once we have possession of his person the whole rebellion falls to the ground. It all depends upon him.”

“True,” was the reply in musing tones. “Well, colonel, I have placed the flower of the army at your disposal. But let this alert^[3] succeed and it shall be brought to His Majesty’s notice that ’tis you alone to whom honor is due. ’Tis my hope that ’twill not fail.”

“It cannot,” replied Colonel Owen in eager tones. “We leave at nightfall by way of Newark. Just beyond Newark on the Morris turnpike lives one Amos Henderson, who is favorable to us, and much laments this broil against the king. He it is who will have a guide ready to take us to the heights of Morristown. In twenty-four hours, sir, I will bring the rebel general in person to your quarters.“

“I see not how it can fail,” remarked Sir Henry. “The utmost secrecy hath been maintained concerning the matter. But did you not say that dinner was served? That, sir, is a function with which nothing short of a rebel attack should interfere. The plan of the new works, which Montressor says you have, can be discussed afterward.”

“Come, then,” said the colonel.

Peggy slipped from the chair and running up-stairs quickly to her own room, sat down to think.

“I must not go with John,” was her decision. “He must get to the general without delay. They said ’twould end the war if he were taken. And it would. It would! I wonder what the time is?”

It was but half-past two, and it seemed to the anxious girl as though four o’clock, which was the time for Drayton’s appearance, would never come. But at last she heard the clock in the hall chime out the hour, and Peggy arose, wrapped herself warmly, and left the house quietly. The snow was still falling. The numerous trees on the wide-spreading lawn, as well as the huge snow-drifts, effectually hid the road from view of the mansion.

Peggy had scarcely taken her position near a bare thicket when she heard the crunch of wheels over the snow, and soon the ox cart appeared down the road. Drayton was whistling, and to all appearance was the countryman he seemed. Peggy awaited him with impatience.

“John,” she cried as the lad drew up opposite her, “John, there is an alert planned to take General Washington. Cousin William starts at nightfall for Morristown with a force to accomplish it.”

“What?” exclaimed he. Peggy repeated her statement, and then quickly told him the entire affair.

“And thee must lose no time,” she said. “Go right on, John, quickly.”

“And you, Peggy?” he cried. “Jump in and let us take the risk of getting through together.”

“No,” she said. “Thee must stop for nothing. ’Twould hinder thee in getting to the general. Now go, John. ’Twill not be long ere the troops gather here.”

“But to leave you, Peggy,” he exclaimed. “I like it not. Were it not for the chief I would not. It may be best. As you say there is need for haste, but I will come again for you.”

“No, no; ’tis too full of risk,” she said. “Go, John, go! I fear for thee every moment that thee stays.”

“I am going,” he said sorrowfully. “Tell me by which road this alert goes?”

“To Newark, and then by the Morris turnpike. They get a guide at Amos Henderson’s,” she told him.

“Good-bye,” he said. “I will come again for you, Peggy.”

“Good-bye, John,” answered Peggy hardly able to speak. “And tell my mother—my mother, John——”

“Yes,” he said. They clasped hands. “Don’t worry, Peggy. This will be the alert that failed.”

Peggy waited until she could no longer hear his cheery whistle down the road and then stole back into the house.

Drayton was right. Four and twenty hours later the most disgruntled lot of Britishers that the city ever beheld returned, fatigued and half frozen from their fruitless quest. The famous alert from which so much was hoped had failed.